


Snippets of Songs

by orphan_account



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, some NSFW parts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 19:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5677876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Chasefield one-shots inspired by songs and then some.</p><p>[Some of these have been reworked, some haven't.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Heatwave

**Author's Note:**

> Hollow Coves - Heatwave (either the original or the Filous remix)
> 
> Because this song makes me think of sunsets and beaches.

She's standing there, shoulders hunched, back curled, ridiculous polaroid camera pressed up against her face. The wind whips at her clothes, sends the vaguest of shivers down her frame but beyond a small adjustment in her footing, she doesn't move.

The click from her camera is small and quiet. A faint buzzing comes promptly after that and she finally moves, plucking the photo that zips out of her lousy polaroid before the wind could beat her to the punch. She shakes it a few times as she turns and starts walking, kicking sand up with the toes of her scuffed sneakers. Victoria stands at the pavement of the beach parking space. She pretends not to have been watching.

"Got what you want?"

Max looks up at her, then peers back down at the photograph. Victoria watches as the sunset behind her casts reds and oranges over her scraggly brown hair, shadows hedging over her shoulders and pooling into the dips of her nose, her upper lip, and the spaces below her eyes. The shadows shift when Max tilts her head thoughtfully and Victoria purses her lips.

"No."

Victoria rolls her eyes. " _Typical_. This assignment is so stupid."

"Didn't _you_ get the shots you wanted?"

"I _did_ ," Victoria drawls like _duh, come on_. She scoffs, makes an effort to make the body shifting she does obvious when Max moves to stand shoulder to shoulder with her. She gives a small snort. "What I meant was, this assignment is so stupid because I have to work with you, even though I can obviously finish this myself."

"I think it's okay."

"Of course you do."

The sun continues its descent. Paints the sea below with the fiery colors of flames, bathing the sands, the roads, the town, the two of them, in its dying golden hues. The wind continues to rush and whip against them. It's cold. Victoria spots goosenips on Max's arm when she stretches it out, the quaint polaroid photograph in her fingers a frozen moment of what is already happening in front of them. The Golden Hour for their "Little Wonders of the World" assignment under Mr. Jefferson. Max had thought of it, on a whim, she said, and Victoria had the right mind to go with the idea.

This is breathtaking after all.

Victoria stares at the photograph. She gives Max a sidelong glance. "It looks fine to me."

Max shakes her head, worries her teeth over her lip. "It's missing something." She says. Victoria scoffs her response into the whipping wind, squinting against the glare of the setting sun. Her shoulders give a faint shiver when another squall rushes past and she lifts one hand, fingers dutifully setting her hair back in place. It's getting colder. Why hasn't she moved to her car yet?

"You said sunset. I see sunset there on the photo. What else do you need? Honestly, hipster -"

 _Click_.

Victoria whirls, eyebrows furrowed and jaw slack as Max extracts a new photo from her polaroid's slot. She smiles at this one, angles it to give Victoria a better view. There on the photograph is Victoria, expression taut between thoughtful and annoyed, cardigan rippled and the collar of her undershirt unkempt against her throat. A hand is buried in her hair but the intention of setting it in place is lost. If anything, she looks to be caught in an impromptu dance, basking in the golden glare of the sunset.

Shadows and light battle on her face, her neck, her hair. Victoria sees an unusual pink discoloration on her cheeks. She tells herself it must be the crappy camera quality.

"This is perfect." Max enunciates with an open smile, drawing the photograph a little closer to her face. The corners of her eyes crinkle.

"So... you're going to submit that?"

"No. This is for me."

Victoria feels herself recoil in surprise, the handbag looped on her wrist jiggles against her hip. She stammers internally, the cogs of her brain rusting over as she gawks at Max and then it becomes too late to spew a snarky retort. Max has already turned around and is starting toward the lone car parked in the beach parking space. When she gets to the passenger side, she looks back to Victoria expectantly. A moment longer and Victoria finally moves toward her.

 

"Can we roll the windows down?" Max asks when they're inside the car and Victoria tosses her a glance. You know the one.

"Technically, you don't _roll_ these down."

"Fine, but you know what I mean."

The car's engine springs to life, the sound soon dwindling to a faint purring. Victoria sighs. "Whatever will shut you up, hipster."

Both their windows go down and the wind greets them in quick laps, hair both blonde and brown whipping as Victoria's hands glide over the handbrake, the gearshift, and the steering wheel with practiced grace. They peel slowly out of the parking area and she chances a glance at Max on the passenger side.

Max sits still, face angled toward the open window, her scraggly mess of brown hair moving with the wind. The light shifts as the car continues to move and the shadows peel back from Max's face, sunset tints giving further life to the delicate line of her jaw and the freckles on her skin, the ghosts of a smile lifting her cheeks in the slightest. She turns to look at Victoria then. Their gazes meet.

The moment stretches. Pulls taut, snaps.

"Wanna go grab something to eat?"

Max continues to stare, looking surprised by the inquiry but manages to smile through it, bright blue eyes shining with a hundred different sunsets as they meet brown across from them. Victoria chews on her cheeks until the desire to smile back dissipates into nothing. "I'd like that." Max says.

"Where to?"

"My suggestions will just be insulted, so I'll let you decide."

Victoria actually smirks at that and picks up speed, weaves into the main road back to the town proper, arguing with the idea of another glance at Max. A red light eventually allows some opportunity for it. When she turns to look, she sees Max toying with the edges of a photograph in her hands, smiling, eyes on the image of Victoria awash with the colors of The Golden Hour.

A warmth comes alive in Victoria's chest, pools at the center before it crawls to her arms, her fingertips, her face. She looks away quickly, breathing warm breaths, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of a rushing pulse. The traffic light turns yellow and Victoria thinks of golden hues, of fiery colors and freckles in the sunset glare.

She wishes she snapped a photo, too.


	2. Shiver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coldplay - Shiver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was listening to Coldplay's Parachute album during one class break, and then this song came up. The lyrics and ambiance gave this snippet life. 
> 
> There's pining here I guess... ?
> 
> Chapter names are song names.
> 
> *Edit: Minor corrections.

"Stop it."

Max does. She pulls away her hands and twines them over her back, bites her lip and looks on like a puppy kicked to the curb. The puppy doesn't bite or bark. Max just doesn't know how to do those. She shuffles her feet when Victoria stares at her, brows furrowed and teeth bared. Victoria hefts herself up to her feet. Good job, Victoria's legs. About time.

Her head hits the wall and the wall hits her right back when she slumps on it. The world is probably a blur because she's blinking, too quickly for Max's peace of mind and Max just can't take it, lost little puppy that she is. Her hands swing out from where she's keeping them and touches Victoria again. Gentler. Maybe a little scared, too, or uncertain, but she keeps her hands where they land.

"Stop touching me."

"You can barely stand."

Victoria's locked out of her room at 2 in the morning. She's all banging noises coming from the stairwell and expletives from across the hall when her door won't let her in without a key, and Max is pretty sure everyone heard her but she's the only one here. The switch to the hall's lights are at the stairwell door, and that's too far a run and Victoria might topple over and give herself a concussion if Max goes for it. So they settle for the light coming out of Max's open door.

"I can take care of myself."

"You can barely stand." The repeat inspires a repeated reaction also. A solid glare. It's honestly impressive Victoria could pull it off so well in her state.

"Let go, loser."

"You'll get my hipster stink all over you and you'll live with it."

And Max's touch tightens a tad. She's clutching at cashmere around thin biceps and it should be cold, because it's cold outside and Victoria just came in, but it isn't. It's almost like she's touching skin - it's warm, enough that she rubs up and down a little. It's way past midnight and she was sleeping when this girl cannonballed in. Her shirt and shorts weren't made for nights outside the warmth of comforters.

Victoria stares at her. She keels a little and Max feels like she might slump, so she moves forward and turns her shoulder into a pillow before it could get to that. A warm forehead flops where her neck starts to meet her shoulder and they both twitch.

"Get away, hipster," Except there isn't much sizzle to it so Max doesn't take it seriously. Not that she would've taken it seriously if it had a lot more fire to it. Breaths that smell like alcohol and a lot of other things burn a hole on the thin fabric of her shirt. Victoria continues: "I don't need your help."

Max swallows and rubs Victoria's arms again. She can see the jut of bone at the back of Victoria's neck at this angle, like a hill, and she busies herself with planting trees on it while their breaths synchronize. "You do, though." She mutters after a while. She practically _hears_ the poison gurgling in Victoria's chest, getting ready to shoot up to her throat and out of her mouth.

Whatever hateful remark Victoria's got cooking burns useless like charred meat on burners though. Victoria takes her face off of Max's shoulder and leans back, glares sharp knives when she looks Max in the face. A snake rearing to strike. She's angry all over except her mouth. There's a quiver to her lip, there and gone again like the spark when a match is struck, and Max wishes and doesn't in equal measure to unsee it.

"I hate you, Caulfield." Is all Victoria says, and Max nods her head in comprehension. Max understands enough.

Because Victoria is toxic. She's a gas leak under pretty skin and an even prettier face. She'll keep spreading until the air turns deadly or a spark sets her off. Her eyes are brown and deep like the holes in the dirt she wants to bury everybody in, all sneering and judgmental staring served hot on a platter for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She'll tear chunks out of people so she has things to keep her company. She's got hate about as subtle as a slap to the face of your grandmother, enough for one more world war and a little more for the survivors.

She'll burn herself if it means the whole world burns with her.

And the string of hatred goes on but it ends. It ends somewhere, and Max is sure because she's seen the end of the string. She's seen it in the timid expression Victoria wears when she thinks no one is looking. She's seen it in the small glances Victoria throws her way during Photography class, felt it in the pricks of her hairs raising when brown eyes stare at her from across the courtyard. She's seen it in the high-res photos stuffed in the bathroom trash cans. Crumpled pictures of trees and cloudy skies. Torn pictures of Max looking on at some invisible horizon. Burnt pictures of things Victoria doesn't hate.

But Max pretends not to know. Pretends not to have seen these things.

She understands enough, because she's better at this than Victoria is. She's better at throwing furtive glances. She does a better job at taking pictures of her in secret and staring without making it obvious.

Max doesn't throw away the photos, or tear them, or burn them. Because there's something at the end of Victoria's string and it isn't the fuse to a bomb.

So Max nods and continues to stand there. She takes it all. She breathes in the noxious gas, she buries herself alive in the dirt, runs straight into the flames. She takes in the hate so everybody else won't have to. "Okay." She says. She'll bleed it all out until it hurts her - until there is nothing Victoria can hurt herself with.


	3. Baby Came Home 2 / Valentines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Neighbourhood - Baby Came Home 2 / Valentines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This song fills me with feelins I'm so sorry. The instrumental of the first half really hits me like damn.
> 
> On a side note, The Neighbourhood is my go-to band when I want to/already feel somber and sad. 
> 
> Also, their whole Wiped Out album is Max/Victoria sadness and feelings fuel for me. Written in the same hour this is posted so excuse errors!

They go to Times Square for Valentine's day. It's an all expense paid, 2-day trip courtesy of the Chases, or, Victoria's parents to be specific. Not that she asked or they bothered to, but her father's secretary answered for him and she needn't bat the metaphorical eyelash for the trip and hotel reservations to be a go. She gets the confirmation of the reservations and schedules 9 minutes later, and tells Max to pack in the next 3.

Max had never been to New York, or so she said. Victoria would've thought this as some sort of flattery from her girlfriend. A kindness for going through the trouble of planning it all out. But then she sees the breathlessness on Max's face plain as day when they step out and Victoria believes. Max gasps, gawks, drinks and breathes in the sights and sounds of Times Square, and Victoria could swear her heart and guts switched places when Max gives her the brightest smile she's seen. On anyone. Ever.

Times Square is all bright lights and loud sounds, a flurry of robust activity that promises never to die down. Victoria holds Max close every which way, pointing at appropriate times at points of interest. Max's neck might've snapped a tendon or two trying to keep up with Victoria's fingers and the scores of neon lights and billboards they pass, but she's smiling. Laughing, beaming like a kid in wonderland.

Max smiling is the world to Victoria.

She flops unconscious once they're in the quiet of their suite. They'd been checked into Doubletree because that's where Victoria's father usually stays during business ventures and meetings at Barclays. Victoria would've gone on and on about the romantic classlessness of the entire hotel, how terribly lacking it was in the arts exhibition wing especially in comparison to Marriott Marquis (which is more or less on Manhattan's Theater District by the way and closer to the Playstation Theater, go figure) but Max's snoring hit the brakes on her trivial bout of anger.

So, she finishes up the room service in relative peace, douses the meal with a generous glass of wine, and curls up next to her snoring burrito of a girlfriend. Max is drooling, mouth agape in telltale exhaustion. Victoria smiles while thumbing away the spit and the stress wrinkles on her face. She sleeps to the image of dark eyelashes, unkempt brown hair, and freckles.

Max sleeping is the world to Victoria.

 

Day 2 finds them driving around in a rental Audi. Lunch is McDonald's, because lunch is Max's choice and apparently 4 times a week of McDonald's back home at Arcadia Bay isn't enough. They go shopping at Forever 21 (Victoria had to literally shove Max into picking out some clothes, Max being the frightful, nervous, bumbling dork that she is going on and on about terrifying prices.) They visit exhibits (because _duh_ ) and Victoria shows her sculptures, paintings, photographs, and marvelous views.

They pick up souvenirs for Dana, Juliet, Kate, the girls, even that nerd Warren from the Disney Store and Lids. At one point they even end up at Duffy Square, Max requesting shot after shot at the Red Steps because she is an embarrassing tourist child and Victoria really can't say no to the love of her life.

They take more photos (double _duh_.) They grab some takeout caffeine from Caffe Bene and drink, hands intertwined as they stroll the long, bright, busy lane leading to The Times building (at Max's request again, because Spider-Man what the hell.) They let the background noises speak for them as neon lights and blaring headlights make them squint. Max squeezes Victoria's hand when she finishes her frappe and leans in, breaking the spell of the Manhattan noise with a whisper.

"I love you."

Dinner is French, at Le Bernardin, because dinner is Victoria's choice and McDonald's is overrated. They drive back to Doubletree for quick outfit swapping and Victoria takes Max's hand when they sit at their reserved table. Max is dressed in a pretty blue cocktail dress she picked out for herself at Forever 21. It might be the trick of the light, but Victoria will swear until her last day the dress shines just a little brighter with Max's just as blue eyes whenever she smiles.

She gets a ring from Max after a hearty meal. Two rings actually, one for her and one for the flushing dork herself. They're quaint little things, faintly golden with their names engraved into each one. Victoria wears Max's name in her ring finger. It's probably pocket change (Max's own words, which she is effectively whacked on the arm for) but Victoria looks at hers like it's God's own material forgiveness to the world's biggest bitch.

Max's gifts are the world to Victoria.

Victoria peels Max out of her new cocktail dress that night and lays her down on the bed like a porcelain doll. Presses kisses like she's stained glass cracked from climate changes and storms. Max's eyes peek through the darkness, skin glowing in the dim room like electricity is running under the flesh in bright blue paths. They kiss like it's their first and last in equal measure, and touch like they're young and old all the same. Victoria's muscles smolder and burst to flames under her skin.

She holds Max. She holds her girlfriend when they're finished and Max is saying good night in drowsy whispers. She's looking at Victoria with a smile and this funny, untapped brokenness hidden behind her eyes. She's been looking at her like that since the first. The first date, the first kiss, the first night. Max's eyes are the eyes to two great storms, hiding away a secret she won't tell.

Victoria touches Max's face. Swipes her thumbs on freckled cheeks like she's wiping away invisible tears. Max is all knowing smiles and warm laughs, dropping awful puns here and there, all while she bends over with the great big sack she's carrying on her back. A sack of problems, a sack of worries. A sack of the pieces of a secret she'll probably keep from Victoria until her dying breath.

She thinks of Max's smile under Taylor and Courtney's hushed whispers and snickering. About how she casually laughs off the comments of some Vortex Club minion about her faded hoodie and scuffed shoes. The way her eyes light up in some bad joke-pun she happens to come up with when someone decides to make fun of that old polaroid camera she's so fond of.

Victoria looks at her, thinking of the nights she had to pretend Max's crying is the sorry sobbing of some other girl down the hall. Thinking of the tense moments Max had to be woken up from some horrible nightmare about tornadoes and deaths and a blue butterfly. Thinking of the blood pouring from her nose while she's making up excuses about her night terrors.

They're a funny pair. Victoria with her parent issues and too much money to spend and Max with other issues and too little money to keep. But this will be okay. Victoria will pull the seams to that terrible sack she's carrying until everything comes spilling out, and she can fix whatever it is that's broken. Just like what Max did for her.

Max can be okay.

Max is the world to Victoria.

And they can be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you sit in front of me  
> And wait for me to talk  
> You can call me up  
> Phone works two ways, you know  
> This time baby  
> And I think that I'll be just fine  
> I wish I could say the same for you  
> I, yeah I do


	4. You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 1975 - You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I work with the music ambiance, sometimes the lyrics, sometimes both.
> 
> This is mostly ambiance, but some lyrics affected too. This one by The 1975 makes me think of rain and sadness.
> 
> That's right. Sadness.
> 
> I feel like I cut this too short, but I hope you like it anyway. Did my best proofreading this.
> 
> This is related to the previous chapter, Baby Came Home 2 / Valentines.

It rains.

The uppity ambiance music playing from the antique record player at the corner, the hum of guests conversing, effectively drowns out the patter of rainfall outside the Prescott Mansion. But if you strain yourself enough, you could almost hear the rain. Almost. Almost isn't good enough.

Victoria weaves through the crowd of well-dressed guests and smiling old friends, smiling at opportune moments while she excuses herself with a wave of the wine glass in her fingers. Said fingers are shaking, but only just. The greetings of " _Congratulations, Victoria_ ," or " _I hope you two become happier together_ ," aren't helping much. She feels queasy, nauseous. Her heart is thumping at an unsteady rhythm in her ribs. She's paler than usual. But who cares to notice things like that, right?

She escapes Sean Prescott's obnoxious happy tunes and the buzz of guests to stumble into the mansion's concourse. The raindrops fall freely onto the atrium's exposed edges, onto the stairs. The grass of the grand front yard is dark green from the rain. It smells like moss and damp earth, to hell with the usual salty sunny beach air of Arcadia Bay.

It's November and everything smells wet.

Goosebumps rise all over her exposed shoulders and arms but Victoria stands, stiff, lips pursed as if she's keeping herself from throwing up. This is bullshit. She should be happy. She should be ecstatic, ethereal. She's got an engagement ring on her finger with a diamond almost the size of a marble and she should be happy.

She forces herself to be with an unceremonious swig from her wine glass.

Her breaths come out in visible puffs of cold gray and she clenches her teeth, braving the cold weather. Better freezing out here alone that warm inside, trapped in that party. Those aren't friends in there. Those are nameless faces just drinking in the next big blockbuster news of Arcadia Bay, maybe even the country. Nathan Prescott, esteemed photographer and businessman, finally getting married at 27. Who would've thought he'd eventually find a girl to love for the rest of his life?

She doesn't even know half the people on the long ass guest list.

Don't cry Victoria. Don't even.

She sniffs, rather audibly, and rolls her jaw some to gather her composure.

"I missed this smell of rain."

Her eyes shut on reflex. Her fingers could almost shatter the glass she's holding. She doesn't know half the people on the guest list but she knows enough of them, and she knows one of them well. Very well.

"You made it." She says, refraining from turning her head. There isn't the telltale sensation of body heat anywhere. The other person in the foyer must be a good distance away.

"Of course. This is a special day for you."

A dollar for every time Victoria's heard that said to her and she could buy a plane ticket out of here in cash. Not that she already couldn't.

"I suppose it is," She answers. A small, uncertain laugh next. She clears her throat and finally turns to look, manages the nicest smile she could, which should be pretty good. She's been groomed since childhood for polite smiles and happy facades. "Thank you for coming, Maxine."

The woman with the brown pin-up hair and flowing blue dress smiles back at her, lips a little strained on one corner but it looks pleasant enough on her face. Max sighs next and swirls the wine in her own glass to stare at. "Congratulations."

"Thank you."

"You look nice. Nathan's a lucky man."

Don't, don't, Victoria. Victoria swallows around the lump in her throat. "Just nice, Max?" She sees fit to tease and Max smiles dopily at her, shrugging her shoulders for good measure. Almost 8 years apart and she still has that same smile, still that same timid calm around her, still that same Max Caulfield-ness. Older obviously, looking a little wiser with the faint touches of make up. She's a little taller too (and she's wearing flats, so Victoria knows) and looks to have gained some weight.

That's good.

"You know what I mean," Max answers sheepishly to which Victoria laughs. "Pretty. You know, like beautiful."

"Years as a photographer in California and still a bumbling social handicap. All that sun and you haven't even tanned."

"I like my hoodies. California is a goddamn sauna complete with the sweating shirtless people and I like my hoodies."

Victoria laughs. Laughs and grins and flushes like it's once upon a time, 8 years ago, in a small town called Arcadia Bay.

Don't think about that.

They weave the silence a little bit, drink quietly from their glasses as they look at the rain. The Prescott mansion gardener is all decked up in rain gear and dutifully trimming the shrubs lining the tall ebony gates of the estate. He's a bobbing figure in the distance that Victoria stares at as she takes small sips of wine. Not for long.

"So... I heard, Seattle? That's where you'll be getting married?" Max ventures delicately, quietly, like any louder will break the spell of rainy peace. Victoria swallows hard.

"Seattle, yes. And then the honeymoon immediately in Paris."

"You've always wanted a honeymoon in Paris."

Don't cry, Victoria. Don't don't don't. "I... have. Yes, I guess I always have."

"I wish I could come. To the wedding."

"You should." Victoria says with a glance to the other woman, biting back the urge to scream _please don't_ at the top of her lungs. Max looks too and there it is on her pretty face, in the strange broken smile and the taut skin around her jaw - _I won't._

"I have... something up on that date. All my best wishes to the two of you though," Max says quietly. "I'm just sorry I can't. It'll be a really happy day for you, so don't let my not being there ruin it. Nathan's probably made the arrangements to make it like some royal wedding or whatever."

Oh he has. Because Nathan is a Prescott. He's famous and he won't settle for anything less than regal. He's a king. He's a photography legend and a ruthless businessman with properties and money and his fingers crawling to encompass the world. And he's going to be her husband.

She's getting married to him, not to some doe-eyed girl who can never give her children and a legacy.

Her parents should be proud. They probably are.

"He spoils me." Is all Victoria says. And she should look away but she doesn't, because here is the face of the girl she had kissed and fallen in love with at 18. The one she took to Times Square on Valentine's Day and promised to bring to Paris on their honeymoon. The one who gave her gifts in songs and photos, showed her the good in a world where she only saw the bad. The only one who understood and seen Victoria Chase under the Dior and Givenchy, who would kiss her the way the sun kisses the ocean when it sets in the west.

The one whose name Victoria is wearing around her neck, engraved in a ring hanging on a glinting silver necklace.

The one with the brokenness in her eyes, the one with the secrets Victoria never had the chance to hear.

Don't, Victoria.

Max smiles at her, a tired curl of her lips that makes her look unnaturally old. An old woman weary from having to drag around her sack of problems all through her life. Her eyelids flutter close and she sighs through her nostrils. "I'm glad he does. I'm glad you're happy, Victoria."

And Victoria should be happy. Because her parents are happy, because her friends are happy, because Nathan is happy.

She feels sick.

Max continues to smile in spite of the silence and shrugs her shoulders meaningfully, moves to set her empty wine glass down on the nearby porch table. Her hand is shaking. "Well, I have to go." She picks up the soggy umbrella leaning on the table next.

Victoria bristles without meaning to. "A-already?"

"I..." Max looks at her with a bitten lip, fumbles with the silver bracelets on her wrist, with the words. "I have a shoot up for early tomorrow. I need to get going if I want to make it in time."

They stare at each other for a long moment, brown eyes drowning in blue, blue eyes drawn into brown. Both colors are glassy with... the ambiance of the weather? The approaching dark blue of the evening? Tears?

"I-I understand," Victoria manages, voice cracking and high in syllables it shouldn't be. She clears her throat and nods her head, looking more like she's wiggling it, takes a step further back as if she's an obstruction in Max's path. "Safe trip, Maxine."

"See you later, Victoria."

" _Au revoir_."

And Victoria wants to scream. Wants to follow Max as she hobbles across the length of the foyer and down the steps, her flats drenching in the wetness of the estate's grass. She wants to run and fly with her to California and disappear, never look back. She wants to go back to Times Square and take pictures at the Red Steps, or go back to Blackwell and continue making promises about Paris and weddings and forever. To be wrapped up in soft blankets next to the love of her life, their clothes strewn on the floor while they lay laughing.

She wants to try finding the right words again, to try to get to that secret at the bottom of those blue, blue eyes.

Wants to go back to being 18 and happy and in love, never mind that she's still that last one. Just with the wrong person.

(Who her parents said is the wrong person.)

Victoria wants to cry.

Don't, Victoria. Don't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you're a liar, at least all of your friends are  
> And so am I, just typically drowned in my car  
> It's my party and I'll cry to the end  
> You must try harder than kissing all of my friends  
> You


	5. Songbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oasis - Songbird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty long one-shot and it's strange considering the song I pulled this 3k disaster out of is like 2 minutes long. I guess I got too into it hah.
> 
> Also, spring cleaning song heck yus. Gave me that kind of feeling anyway.
> 
> See, I can do not-sad. Kind of.

Spring in Seattle is a beautiful thing. The skies get clearer and bluer, the air warms up and dries, and the trees and plants get to have their colors and buds back. The sun gets to stay higher and longer in the sky now, too, bathing the breathtaking cityscape of Seattle in its bubbly shades of yellow light. Coats are traded for thin sweaters and t-shirts. In the suburban areas and beyond, bikes and morning joggers make a dramatic return.

The atmosphere smells kind of like dirt, flowers, and wet laundry hung to dry. It rains in gentle pitter-patters once in a while, but not strong enough to scare people back into their houses. Birds return to make mornings either better or worse, really depends on the people.

No bugs though, no sir. At least not where they're living.

Although to be fair, Max thinks that probably has something to do with Victoria's weird fixation on bug sprays and air fresheners (she buys them by the fucking bulk for crying out loud.) She sprays the house with them like twice a day, and if Max doesn't know any better she'd think Victoria is trying to kill her with asphyxiation or something. Or cardiac arrest through nonstop sneezing.

On the bright side, their house is absolutely, 99.9%, bug-free.

They're both enrolled at The Art Institute of Seattle. Victoria Chase could've gone to NYU, or to Stanford, maybe even Harvard or some other prestigious university with all her brains and money. She probably could have had a new university erected in her name if she wanted, good god. Instead though, she is here in Seattle with Max, paying the dues for their small rental house. And their electric bills. And their water. And others.

Max contributes through manpower and skills in cooking, house cleaning, lawn mowing - you know, the usual duties of a peasant. Chasing away the odd stray animal pest while simultaneously trying in vain to calm Victoria down, that kind of thing. Max also takes care of the groceries.

Not that Victoria doesn't do her own grocery shopping once in a while, please see bug sprays and air fresheners section.

Also Bagel Bites. She loves those.

They choose a Tuesday to do some spring cleaning, since Victoria has her boring classes on Tuesdays and Max is just too damn lazy on Mondays. Naturally, Victoria takes the second floor. There's just something about being on top, being above others y'know, and Max gets it. Kind of.

She's neck deep in concentration with scrubbing the kitchen floors squeaky clean when the crying starts. She doesn't flinch. As a matter of fact she takes this as a cue to start scrubbing even harder, like she wants to peel the cocoa coloring right off the linoleum. The neighbors are blasting some tunes for their own spring cleaning efforts. Max is rubbing to the rhythm of some swanky rock power ballad.

The crying doesn't stop though. In fact it gets louder and Max, sighing through gritted teeth, eventually gets off her knees. She's palming away at unruly bangs with sweaty hands.

"Victoria!" She yells.

" _Max!_ " Comes the muffled answer. "Max! I'm in the bathroom! Go get Mia for a sec!"

The command ends with a troubling grunt and Max quirks an eyebrow. Huh. Must be all those Bagel Bites coming back for some haunting. Maybe Victoria will start rethinking her eating and grocery shopping habits, or Max certainly hopes so anyway. You can only take so much Bagel Bites in one lifetime.

The other night Max had a nightmare where they were sentient and choking her with their grubby hand-things. It felt so real.

Dumping the cloth she's been manhandling into the sink, she clambers her way up the stairs. Their bedroom has this wooden gate-fence thing put there for caging - uh, _blocking_ purposes, seeing as they currently have an actual tiny human living with them who literally _anything_ can happen to. The kid is still crying even as Max bends over its fence-thing to look.

Right. There's a kid.

Life with a kid is hard.

Her name's Mia, and she has a mop of soft brown hair and chubby cheeks. Max has taken to calling them choo-choo cheeks, for absolutely no reason at all. Nicknames just come so easy to cute things. She also has about the bluest eyes the two of them have ever seen on this side of heaven. They're wide and glossy, and they do this thing where they kind of stare into your very soul, tear into every fabric of your existence.

They're doing it with Max right now, while she's hooking her hands under Mia's arms to lift her over the fence.

"Such lungs on a tiny human being," Max is whisper-cooing. Mia shuts up at the physical contact and starts giggling, drawls incoherent baby words while effectively showering Max's shirt and the floor with spit. Max decides to just set Mia down on her feet. Mia wants to touch Max's face and her hands are all spit-covered. No. "You're such a high maintenance baby, aren't you, little Mia? Yessir, so high maintenance."

Where'd the name Mia even come from anyway? Weird.

Victoria's calling out, "Max?" and yup, it's coming from the bathroom down the end of the hall.

"I've got her!" Max assures.

Mia is a year old, and she does this awkward dance-wobble in the struggle of staying upright on her feet. She grins toothily and drools a little more when she doesn't fall over, pushes past Max with purpose. She has cute sausage arms and legs and they all swing with every step she's taking.

She's stomping across the wooden floors like an angry bear cub. _God_ , she's so cute, like, look at her, with her chubby arms and awkward legs, and the way she's trudging around, and the way she giggles and _oh no no no no oh god the stairs wait stop little human -  
_

They were watching a James Bond movie last night, and Max is positive the dive she does is _nothing_ like the cool diving move 007 likes to do. She just hobbles and leaps without any actual poise, screeching and throwing her arms out to grab the kid. She does manage to grab Mia, and does manage to yank Mia back before the unspeakable could happen, but then she's suddenly slipping and _oh man._

Tears sprout at the corners of her eyes when her rear slams on a step. And then she bounces down a couple more steps, slams her elbow against the wall, rolls the rest of the way down, before collapsing in a pitiful pile of spread limbs and pained whining. Mia's at the top of the stairs, peering down at her while clapping her little hands, giggling and bouncing jovially on her knees. What a kid. Next time, you gotta pay for tickets.

On an side note, Victoria _really_ did a number on the floors. 10/10 scrubbing.

Victoria comes into view at that moment, floats over like some elegant, otherworldly goddess-being. She scoops Mia up in her arms and Mia keels into her, small hands flying up to cup at Victoria's exquisite cheek bones. She coos lovingly at the kid.

Victoria, while as bitchy, nasty, and calloused as she is, has this tender power over Mia that the tiny human just calms down, rolls over docilely in her mere presence. In all the years Max has come to know her, Max has never once figured her as a loving kind of mother figure. A bloodthirsty vampire at one point yes, but not really a mom. Can't blame Max, though, can you.

It's probably from the parent issues. Victoria just doesn't want another kid being raised the way she did. In a way, it's kind of a nice, almost sweet, thought.

Max does a small whining sound and Victoria glances over at her at the bottom of the stairs. The affectionate motherly air dissipates, crackles into a wild forest fire, and she's throwing Max that look she used to all the time back in high school. Years later in college and finally dating, and she _still_ pulls the look off perfectly. "What the fuck are you doing down there?"

" _Not in front of the kid!_ " Max wails, flails a little from being akimbo in pain and suffering. She sits up with some difficulty. Oh, kids and body pains. "Censor yourself, potty mouth, fudgicles."

Victoria rolls her eyes, one perfect blonde eyebrow arching. She bounces Mia against her bosom. "Done with the kitchen?"

"Nuh."

A bit of tutting. Max groans internally. "Well, it's almost lunch time. When you finally do finish up, make us some lunch, huh, babe?"

"Whadduya want?"

"Bagel Bites."

Of course.

 

They have Bagel Bites for lunch, snacks, and dinner that day. Mia is given milk bottles, as is appropriate, but Victoria tried feeding her some Bagel Bites at dinner. Max sat there wincing when the kid took a piece eagerly and started gnawing on it like some uncultured fiend. Victoria looked on fondly.

It's 8pm and they're on their second movie by the time Max feels the horrid things making her stomach grumble and twist uncomfortably. She sneaks a fart, glances warily at Victoria, and relaxes when Victoria only continues to blink idly at the images of a topless Zac Efron on their (Victoria's) plasma. The lights are off, the volume is cranked low, and Max couldn't fight the urge to give Victoria a little peck on the crown of her blonde head. The blonde head shifts some.

"I can't believe _this_ is on instead of some _Lars von Trier_ genius film."

" _Haagen-Dazs_. Sure. I totally agree."

Victoria nudges her. She's leaning into Max, curled comfortably in the crook of Max's side. Mia is somewhere at Max's other side curled similarly. She's snoring out these tiny wet sounds. Her night's milk bottle has probably rolled somewhere behind the sofa cushion.

Victoria rolls her head against Max's shoulder. "Max, do you think I'm exiguous?"

"That depends. What does exiguous mean?" Max ignores the look Victoria throws her like a pro.

"Inadequate, Max. _Lacking. Incompetent._ "

"Why couldn't you just say _those_ words?"

The silence that follows worries Max. She looks at Victoria. In all her snarky, flawless glory, Victoria has this overly anxious side that kind of pops up in the most inopportune moments. A hidden kind of insecurity. A gaping chasm lousily covered up with overcompensating and ridiculous standards and self-expectations.

Victoria cries spontaneously in her presence and it's gotten so frequent, it's become _normal_ now. Max will be there, hold her through it, listen to half-assed excuses and explanations, and shush her until they both fall asleep. She holds Victoria's hand when her parents call her cell, guides her through the calls with small smiles and kisses. Tells her she's beautiful, she's smart, she's perfect, because she _is._

Victoria shifts, sucking in a breath. "Mr. Roberts gave me a B minus on that short film I submitted. He said it was visual perfection. And that was the problem. The visuals were the only thing perfect about it. He gave me shit on the feelings and audio and whatever."

Right, Victoria's moved on from still pictures to live films. She stiffens a little against Max and Max chews her lip, rubs a soothing pattern up and down Victoria's tight back. "Listen, I watched that film and it was awesome. My classmates said so, too, I showed them," She squeezes on the tense back her hand is splayed on, drags her knuckles gently over the spots she can reach. "The next time this Mr. Whatshisface gives you anything lower than an A plus, I'll punch him in the face."

The couch bobs when Victoria pushes off of Max to sit a little more upright. Her eyes are wide, soft, searching. The way she's fluttering her eyelids tells Max she's blinking back tears. "Will you really?"

"Well. How tall is he?"

That drags out a loud, genuine laugh from her. She swats at Max twice, the second one harder than the first, and Max edges away from her to avoid any further physical harm. She's grinning though, and Victoria sits there rumbling and spasming with hard laughter while thumbing away tears. Max bites her lip, reaches for Victoria to run her fingertips over the dips and slopes of her face, cupping her cheek like it's the first time all over again. Victoria leans into her palm.

"You're so pretty." Max says. Victoria snorts at her, but smiles.

"Love you."

"Mhm. Love you, too."

A bandage and kiss to the wound.

The credits are rolling on the plasma. Outside, a car honks twice. Victoria hops off the couch quickly to scoop Mia up into her arms, cradles the tiny thing against her chest while Max is tripping all over herself, darting here and there to collect Mia's things. Baby bottles and milk, check. Clothes, check. Diapers, toys, stupid hippo stuffed animal, check-check-checkeroo.

Victoria's already opened the front door and hovering at the doorway by the time she's done with the scavenging. She scrambles over, drags Mia's bag, half-hampered by a sock, and manages to crack a dorky grin when Victoria moves out of the way for her.

"Max!"

"Hey, Dana," She all but squeaks, all the air in her body tackled right out by an enormous bust and muscled arms. She breathes when she's released, moves to stand next to Victoria. "So, _so_ , how was Vegas?"

Trevor is on the lawn behind his wife, bouncing their daughter in his arms while he's swaying them around. Max can see the shimmer of drool on Mia's fingers this far away. " _Fantastic!_ " Dana practically bellows. "Oh, it was just _amazing!_ Trevor won a couple hundreds at the slots, and I think I'm _magic_ at poker!"

"Oh, that's good, that's _great._ I'm so glad you enjoyed yourself a lot."

"I did! We did!" Dana is exploding with energy. Too much energy for this hour in the night. Behind her, Trevor is throwing Mia up and down and Victoria's eye twitches. "Oh, thank you so much for babysitting Mia for us. We wouldn't have been able to go! Can't trust just _any_ stranger with your child, right? I hope she didn't cause you any trouble?"

"Just some butt pains."

"No trouble at all."

Victoria elbows Max. The two of them smile, and Dana beams. Max hands the mother her daughter's baby bag and they talk a little more. Victoria just stands there, watches Trevor do circus tricks with his daughter.

Whoa, _okay_ , that spinning toss thing was dangerous, but pretty cool.

"Having a kid is hard." Victoria mutters once Dana has shut up and is walking back to their car, Trevor and Mia in tow. Mia is bowed over her father's shoulder, one arm flailing in her own kind of goodbye wave, choo-choo cheeks rounding to fullness with her grin. Kid's probably gonna miss them. Hey, spend four days with anyone and you're gonna end up missing them ,too, when it's time to part. Max sees Victoria's hand rise to wave back to the kid.

"Like super hard." Max agrees.

"There's all the crying."

"And drool."

"And worrying."

"And butt pains."

"And getting them to sleep."

"And the feeding."

"And then waking up."

"And pooping."

Trevor rolls down his window to wave to the two of them, honking again to get the point across. Max nods and waves right back, Victoria just twiddles her fingers.

They close the door once the car disappears down the road's horizon. Max throws her arms over her head in a long stretch, pops a few bones, grunts when her butt aches with a familiar pain. She eases it with a mild pat on one buttock. Victoria is already strutting back to the couch, reaching for the remote on the living room coffee table. She opens one arm for Max to slink into. Max does exactly that.

Victoria browses through channels and gives Max a peck on one cheek. "We're getting one of our own." She says.

"Totally."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna write a song so she can see  
> Give her all the love she gives to me  
> Talk of better days that have yet to come  
> Never felt this love from anyone


	6. Take Me To Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *NSFW snippet.
> 
> Hozier - Take Me To Church
> 
> (Alternate world Max & V)  
> (Bec alt Victoria seemed kinda thirsty Idk about yall)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS SIN THIS IS SIN THIS IS SIN CHILDREN LOOK AWAY I'M SORRY
> 
> *SIRENS BLARING* *PEOPLE SCREAMING*

Maxine fists Victoria's hair with wild urgency, grasps hard enough that some strands go snapping when she drags her hands down to claw on her neck. Bonfires will douse themselves in shame with the intensity of the flames bleeding out of Maxine's eyes, a raw hunger, volatile and unbridled. The table's legs scratch the floor when Victoria hoists Maxine over it.

"Get this off me." She whispers throatily and Victoria obeys with heavy breaths, clawing on the denim and promptly dragging the jeans down through the belt loops. The preening red of the dark room's light glares over them. Maxine is backlit, looming with reddened outlines and a fierce halo, face caught in the bounds of battling shadows and light. Sat higher, looking down on Victoria from atop the table.

Maxine pushes her until she's all the way down and kneeling. Down on the floor, bruising and wounding her knees, where Victoria ought to be. Where Victoria loves to be. Worshipping.

Adoring, wanting.

She breathes deeply through her nose and opens her mouth, sticks her tongue out to lick and mouth at the moist fabric of Maxine's panties. The scent is candles and burnt incense. The taste is wafers and wine. Even the moan from above is like hymns and choir voices, answers to prayers. Victoria whimpers and pushes the panties aside to taste in full the flavors of her devotion.

Maxine claws on Victoria's wrists when she snakes her arms up, hands tracing the sweaty expanse of her thighs and up under her shirt. Victoria beats the sopping clit in her mouth with her tongue, traces firm patterns and then drag up and down a weeping slit. This is all real. This faith is real. This faith moans and speaks and touches, it's alive and breathes, has flesh that warms and trembles under her palms and fingers. This isn't like Kate Marsh's faith of unanswered prayers and fragile adoration.

The breath in Maxine's lungs catches before it's exhaled with a husky groan, her thighs folding against and squeezing the sides of Victoria's head. She digs her fingers into fluffy blonde hair and pulls, gritting out, "Victoria," and Victoria can only think yes, _yes_ , because this is what she wants, this is what she needs, Maxine with her, feeling her, giving her acknowledgement beyond half-assed text replies and small chuckles to her snarks. Giving her a moment in her heaven.

A forceful shove from Victoria has the table legs scratching noisily again, Maxine herself growling deeply, shivering, arms giving out and she falls to the tabletop flat on her back. She arches beautifully when Victoria slips her fingers in. Whines when teeth graze her clit as she bucks her hips.

"Victoria," Again, and " _Victoria_ ," sharper now, breathing turning heavier and body beginning to twitch. " _Victoria_ ," _Yes_ , _yes_ , the answer to her prayers, the fruit of her worship. It doesn't really matter if there are others who get on their knees like this for Maxine. Victoria will give all of herself to her, her prayers, body, heart, everything. She'll give it all until Maxine is _her_ Maxine and there's no one else but her who can kneel.

" _Victoria!_ "

The wetness spreads to Victoria's cheeks, drip and trace paths down her chin and jaw. She doesn't bother to wipe the traces of her worship and instead immediately rises to her feet, leaning over Maxine with wide eyes and a broad grin. Maxine's face is moist with sweat, smoky with languid energy and unsated arousal, so breathtaking in the hazy red of the dark room. So beautiful, panting but still surging with the cold confidence and burning power that make her the queen that she rightfully is.

When she peers up at Victoria with blown pupils and a coy smirk, Victoria knows they aren't done yet. She feels her own wetness past the stinging of her knees.

This is her goddess. This is the goddess she chooses over all others, and instead of commanding her not to sin, this one lets her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take me to church  
> I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies  
> I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife  
> Offer me that deathless death  
> Good God, let me give you my life


	7. Sparks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coldplay - Sparks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This song wouldn't stop bothering me since I used it on another fic (you probably know the one.) So here, I pulled this piece out of that song so it can finally leave me in peace.
> 
> Written in one sitting and posted immediately, I'm sorry if it feels rushed but hey here have some happiness because it's Valentine's, alright alright alright. 
> 
> The conclusion to Baby Came Home 2 / Valentines and You. Yes, I decided to do it.  
> *Will be proofread and edited appropriately some time later.
> 
> (Hi it's Valentine's day pls someone take me to see Deadpool and love me)

The Seattle cityscape passes in a bright blur of paint and sunny colors. Music from the radio blends with the car's steady hum. A dull impromptu riff in the background of the song's convivial tempo, a lull of the engine that is stagnant no matter the outburst of guitars. Victoria concentrates more on the car's buzz than the music.

It's a futile attempt at relaxing. Her hands are nearly white on the steering wheel, tendons and veins sticking out. She breathes out, long and quavering. She sucks in another bout of air and fights the urge to close her eyes and slam her forehead on the wheel in the middle of a drive. Car crashes aren't her thing.

Out the window, the scenery is changing from pompous sights to modest buildings. The sign beckoning visitors to Beacon Hill flashes at her peripheral. She swallows, follows the map on the dashboard to the suburban quarter. Her breathing escalates.

What the hell is this. She's 44. She should have nerves of steel. She shouldn't be trembling like an 18 year old.

The GPS display on the dashboard flashes. A tiny red dot on the map blinks. A couple of minutes more.

Okay.

Victoria's phone is on the passenger side with a dead screen. She's turned it off after about the eleventh call from her father demanding her to explain and then go fix things. Was it in that order? She can't remember.

But anyway, in spite of all their attempts to keep things hush, things still found a way to come out. In a day the news blew up about it, and in an hour her father blew up, too. Victoria can only imagine the look her mother would wear.

Or, maybe she can't. Her mother was buried so long ago Victoria can't even remember how sour her face can get anymore.

The scenery continues its change to modesty and calm. Homes dot the sides of the roads with the odd business establishment sticking out once in a while. The people are peaceful, leisurely things. A man is walking with his teenage son and Victoria thinks of her own son, seventeen and blonde, pale and tall and healthy. Brown, brown eyes and a shaped face so identical to hers she might as well have torn hers off and given it to him.

The only sign of his father that the boy has is the last name. _Prescott_ , stark and bold. She had the same name up until a week ago.

Nathan had been understanding about it, if only a little knowing. And then Victoria went to her son, who wept beady tears at the sight of his mother crying, her face taut in a limbo of overwhelming happiness and crippling fear. But he held her, and that boy who grew up to the sight of a quietly loving mother who barely smiled outside their home, grinned and told her to be happy.

Be happy, he said. And he said it again in a series of texts this morning.

 _Be happy._ Victoria supposes she should be glad she at least did something right in this lifetime, having raised a child despite of everything who could feel love and happiness as simply as breathing air.

But right now it's hard to feel happy when her heart is threatening to go into arrest. She's parked now, her bright red Porsche like a misplaced detail in the humble backdrop of a simple family home. The display on the dashboard tells her she's arrived. She reaches for the compartment below it to tug at two slips of stiff paper, careful not to crumple it with her nervous fingers.

Okay.

The car door opens and she steps outside. A passing neighbor gives her and her car the curious eye but she only smiles, or, she hopes she did that properly. Clearing her throat, she dusts and smooths down her skirt, her jacket, her hair, trying to will her blood back to her face. She follows the path to the house and freezes instinctively when the front door opens. Out steps an elderly man, slouched with age but burly and bearded. She sees the blue of his eyes and feels her heart take a quick pit stop.

He greets Victoria politely, if only a little curiously. Victoria clears her throat and speaks, hoping against hope her voice isn't as wobbly as it sounds to her. She tells him who she's looking for.

 

The photographer who lives in this quaint, quiet home has pulled out of the extravagant art world. She did make a name for herself beforehand, and Victoria sees signs of her prestige in the forms of hanging certificates and polished awards on the shelves. There are pictures too, copies of photographs already on exhibit around the country. Landscapes, portraits, stolen moments of both acquaintances and strangers. Victoria follows the series of displayed photos to a small living room, and then down a diffident study.

More landscapes. Waves lapping at the shore, a small hut in the middle of a lush, green field. A flock in the sky posed next to the tiny dot of an ascending plane. Squirrels by a tree, a dog running down the street. Captured portraits of famous and mundane faces. Unplanned moments. Lovers holding hands, friends in each other's embrace.

And then there. Lovers in a city, Duffy Square's famous Red Steps behind them.

Victoria holds her breath, feels her knees tremble.

It's her face in there. Young, cheeks round in a smile, face bright enough to light the midnight seas. The face next to hers is brighter. It lights up the world. Or hers, maybe just hers. Just her world.

The trail of smaller framed photographs continue. Still her face, _their_ faces, all broad smiles and moments she remembers. A day at the beach, an afternoon at the mall, a night in her room. Kisses to the forehead, cheeks, lips. Eyes closed and eyes opened. A birthday party with old friends, the day before Christmas break, Valentine's day.

She's shaking. Stop shaking.

She inhales, one furious sweep of oxygen through her mouth and turns away from the set of photos.

Her heart drops. Air rushes out of her mouth in one quiet hiss. Her body won't stop shaking ( _stop shaking_ ) and she can't blink, staring wide-eyed at the woman standing at the doorway to the study.

Brown hair, blue eyes, splashes of freckles and narrow shoulders. Frozen at the entryway, the light of Victoria's world bundled in a body no taller than five-foot-four. Time slows before it stops. Victoria can hear her own heartbeat, her own pulse, her own troubled breathing. She clutches the slips of papers in her hand.

"Hi," It's breathless. She's breathless. She tries again to put more sound to it. "Hi, Max."

Max twitches. Her round face tenses with faint wrinkles, signs of age, before it slacks in a gape. She has grocery bags in her hands, the cuffs of her sweater riding past her knuckles, jeans faded and simple and still so _very_ Max. 

Beautiful, shy. Unmarried. 

She hasn't changed. She hasn't changed at all.

The thought is enough to make Victoria smile but her lips wobble, the corners of her eyes already pricking with tears. She breathes and shrugs her shoulders, not bothering at all to avert her eyes. No. She hasn't looked at Max, hasn't seen her for years. She'll keep staring until it hurts her eyes.

"You look well," She says. Watery, shakily. When she gets no answer she shrugs again, ignoring the weight coiling in her gut. "You haven't changed a bit."

This time, Max does move. Her lips curl and the way it looks on her is so breathtakingly beautiful Victoria starts crying before she can stop herself. She swallows and sighs, knees so close to giving out. "Nathan and I are... we're done. We decided to end it. It just wasn't working out anymore. He had his businesses and more important things and I..." She's rambling, she's shaking and she's rambling. "I - we have a son, you know. And he's a really nice boy. I tried my best. We tried our best. You would like him, and he'd like you. And he's doing okay, considering this, and..."

She chokes on her own sob and shuts her eyes fiercely, clenching her jaw and sighing. When she opens her eyes, Max is still staring at her, lips thin and face inscrutable. Victoria's insides are swirling into a big black mass of warmth and cold and everything in between.

"I - I missed you," She says. Max's face twitches, crumples into that face Victoria once saw while they were watching Titanic. The face that says she's holding back tears. Victoria takes a step forward. "I... I was just wondering if - if. If. It's too late to... for..."

She shows Max her hands. On one are two slips of papers, airline tickets dotted with colors and letters that are blurred to her watery eyes. One word stands out, bold and black at the top. _Paris._

"I - I don't know, I..." The words are leaving. The words are going and leaving her with choked sobs, wrapped in the cracking voice of a 44 year old woman drowning in the fears and hopes of an 18 year old girl. Victoria blinks furiously and tries to see past the moist in her vision. "I'm sorry. I'm s-so sorry. I don't know. _I don't know,_ Max, I don't know. Is - is too late? Can I? Can we? Can -"

She cuts herself off because the words are gone now. She's sobbing in the middle of the study, crying in front of the girl, the woman, she has done nothing but love and love _more_ through the distance that time has put between them. Love, through the distant memories and hanging promises. Love, through the pain and silence. Through the seasons that passed them, the summers, autumns, winters, and springs that only brought them farther.

Through the cities and towns and people that kept them apart.

Love.

"I can leave," Victoria professes, sniffing and hastily wiping her face with her hands. She shakes her head and fights another sob, swallowing fiercely through the blockade in her throat. "I - I'm sorry, I can leave. I'll go and I'll -"

The words die a second time. They disappear, because Max has bolted over and slammed into Victoria. And Victoria sobs, winds her arms around her, holds and grasps like Max is her lifeline. Like she's a bolt of rope coming down into the waters she has long been drowning in. A sign of peace after the storm, flames in the eternal cold. Colors in the gray, lights in the dark.

She is everything. She is everything, and Victoria clutches until the years recede. Until the cities shrink, until the seasons go back. Until the flowers close and the snowflakes float back to the sky, until the leaves become green and the sun hides behind clouds. Until she's 18 and all she can feel is love.

Love.

Love, love.

"I'm sorry," She keeps saying. Max shushes her softly, cooing into her ear and bringing them close enough to press into each other's skin, each other's bones. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

And Max only laughs, pulling away enough to show Victoria her smile and her tears, the brilliant gleam of her blue eyes and the light of her face. She glows. Beams in a light so bright she puts the sun to shame. "It's okay," She says. She sniffs, drawing up a thick line of snot back into her nostril and they both laugh. "It's okay. Victoria, it's okay. We're okay."

Okay.

It's okay. They're okay.

"We can go?" Victoria hedges, brown eyes going wide with youthful hope. She shoves her hand between them and wiggles the tickets like a madman. "We can go? You'll go with me? Right now? Tonight?"

"Yes," And then a pause. "But I have to tell my dad."

" _What?_ "

"He'll get worried if I just disappeared I mean -"

"You suck, Max."

Their laughter carries them through time. Through the years that now feel like never happened. Like the wrinkles aren't there, or their hairs aren't starting to turn white at the roots. Max paws at Victoria's shoulders, eyes going wide. She grins like an 18 year old dork through the snot and tears. The smile is stupid. It's pretty, it's beautiful. It's bright. "Stay? Stay. F-for lunch. Have you eaten? I was out buying stuff for spaghetti, and I cook a really _mean_ spaghetti so would you -"

"Max," Victoria is laughing. She cups Max's face and squeezes until she stops her bumbling. "I'll stay. I will."

Max smiles. She thumbs at Victoria's tears, humming, and then blabbers because that's what Max does. "You have to tell me about what you've been up to all those years. The news can only cover so much. Do you still take photos? And your son, what's he like? Is Nathan okay? What did he say? - _I'm sorry_ , we can probably talk about this later, I just don't know what else to say, I mean, I _missed_ you and so many _times_ I was tempted to turn back time, but I got so old and I think -"

"Turn back time?" Victoria mutters, arching her eyebrows. Max stops long enough to stare at her and drink in the confusion of her face. Her eyebrows furrow, her mouth slacks, and then in some belated realization, she raises her own eyebrows.

"Oh, right," She grins. "About that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My heart is yours  
> It's you that I hold on to  
> That's what I do  
> And I know I was wrong  
> But I won't let you down
> 
> I say, oh  
> I cry, oh
> 
> And I saw sparks


	8. Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [The Chainsmokers - Roses (feat. Rozes)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FyASdjZE0R0)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Note: EDM on link.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just stupid teenagers being dumb and careless and cute. 
> 
> This is such a nice song. Hits me like the perfect music to float to, tbh.  
> Hope you like both it and this piece!

Max has watched Chloe smoke it all the time. Its smoke is thicker, _way_ thicker than cigarette smoke and the stench is a lot more invading. Strong, clings to your clothes, hair, and skin for hours, and even the secondhand smoke has its effect when inhaled. Chloe laughs a lot at her when her face scrunches up around the smoke, or when she starts having a coughing fit while waving the clouds away. Max thinks the laughing has a lot more to do with the high than how funny she looks in general.

Or, if she thinks about it, it could actually be because of both.  


She gets it now though. The laughing. Right now she giggles, skull expanding and brain shrinking, head going so high it feels like it’s poking above the clouds. She sniffs, giggles a little more and bursts into a full blown laugh when someone snorts next to her.

Chloe tried getting her to partake loads of times. Went as far as plotting to feed her weed brownies, but blew her cover pretty quickly by cackling as soon as Max took one. “ _Geez, Max, you’re so uptight. Loosen up a little bit, huh? Chill, sistah,_ ” She said when Max broke into a long, thoroughly uninteresting lecture about marijuana and responsibilities and self-control.

Ironic that she’s throwing that lecture out the window now. _Pop_ , right over the sill. Not that she can remember exactly what she said.

“‘Nother?” Victoria drawls next to her, holding up a half-smoked joint between her fingers. Such pretty fingers. Max blinks, tries to remember how many they’ve had but fails miserably. She opens her mouth and when nothing comes out of it, Victoria snorts and starts giggling. “Oh my _god_ , Max, you look so _stupid_.”

Max’s cheeks twitch, ache, but a good kind of ache. Like the soreness from smiling too much. A subtle tickle under the muscles of her cheeks. “ _You_ look stupid,” She fires back. “You’re wearing anime sweats, Vicky.”

Victoria flips her off and Max sticks her tongue out, then runs it over her lips, around in her mouth and along her teeth. She pulls a face. “I need a drink, Vic.”

“We don’t have one,” Victoria says through a smoke ring. She’s lying on the ground but she gets up when Max does. “Where you going? Hey, what’re you doing?”

Max doesn’t hear her. She’s swinging her foot onto the rooftop’s ledge, shivering when a squall passes. The cold runs through her hair, picks at her scalp and face and neck, whips her hoodie around like a cape. A cape. Hey, she could be a superhero.

“Don’t look down,” Victoria tells her and she doesn’t, looking up at the sky instead. It looks so much bigger, so much grander here from the roof. Max knows for a fact that doesn’t makes sense but it feels like that right now. Like, just a little more and she could grab a star, burn her hands around it, watch its dying light seep through the gaps of her fingers. “Hey, come on, what are you doing?”

She turns her head at the vague sound of worry in Victoria’s voice and smiles goofily. “Look at the sky, Tori.” She’s going through her stock of nicknames for Victoria pretty quickly. With a giggle and a grunt, she swings her other foot onto the ledge and stretches her arms at her sides for balance, trying not to sway.

Victoria grabs her hand and steadies her. They both still. Another breeze passes. Max’s teeth chatter and she feels Victoria’s hand stiffen around hers. “You ever seen the stars this bright?” She asks absentmindedly, taking a step forward. Victoria follows as Max ambles the length of the ledge. “I think they’re especially bright tonight. What do you think that means?”

“That means you’re ridiculously high.”

Max stares at the sky, careful steps keeping her moving, Victoria’s hand keeping her steady, safe. She feels her hoodie, thrashing like a cape. She really does want to grab a star. Take one and fizz out the fires of it before giving it to Victoria so her hands won’t burn. She wants to give Victoria a star. “Do you want a star, V?” She asks, and Victoria looks at her like she’s an alien so she laughs.

They reach the end of the ledge. Max looks down at the ground (whoop, sorry Victoria,) stares at the length of the fall and the foreboding darkness of grass and dirt at the bottom. Victoria tugs her upright. A weight of safety to keep her from falling.

(Kinda pointless, since she’s already falling. From the moment she laid eyes on Victoria and seen the doughy brown of her eyes, to the moment Victoria first called her an idiot with such distaste, and then eventually such fondness. To the moment she asked Max to come along with her, Taylor, and Courtney to the mall and to the moment she asked her to try a joint. To right now. She’s falling.)

“Do _you_ want a star, Max?” Victoria asks with a grin and a shine to her eyes, fingers squeezing Max’s palm. Max feels her breath hitch. Her brain comes back to her but her heart starts to leave, wants to leave, throws itself against her chest like it means to squeeze through the gaps of her ribs. She nods, mute, and Victoria hops up on the ledge with her. Their hands stay held.

“I’m taller. I’d have a better chance of reaching one than you.” She says and they both laugh, swaying and bouncing on the ledge. A rush of wind blows, crashes against them both and Victoria squeaks, tilting and tipping, knees wobbling. She slants and her arms flail. 

Max grabs her hand and pulls, hopping off the ledge to steady her with her shoulder and head. Victoria’s other hand comes and lands on her hair, fingers cold and sweaty on her scalp. She’s heavy but Max keeps her up with a held breath and tense muscles, prayers of _don’t fall don’t fall don’t fall._

The half-smoked joint is gone, crushed under Max’s shoe. “ _Oh_ ,” Victoria intones, eyes wide and jaw shaking. Max looks at her with slow breaths and a tug at her lips, tickles on her cheeks. A chest swelling with relief, heart beating both nervously and happily. Victoria is the first to grin and they share a small giggle, hands tight, not letting go. “That was close.”

But Victoria doesn’t get off the ledge. She stretches her arm at her side for balance and Max holds the other. Steadies her, keeps her from falling.

(But part of Max wishes she’s falling, too. That with each eyeroll, each snark, each quip at her tastes in clothes and music, Victoria is falling. That the softness in her eyes, her smiles, her voice when she talks to Max means something, and what it means is she’s falling.)

“Don’t let me go.” Victoria says, almost a question as she looks to Max. Max grins at her, shrugs coolly, puffs her chest out like she’s a big damn deal and places her free hand on her own hip.

“Never, baby.”

She’s reached the end of the nicknames and picked the last of them. Victoria looks at her with a quirked brow and a smile that has Max wishing, praying, _hoping_ it means something. “Okay,” She says quietly and then starts walking the ledge. “I’ll get a star, Max. Just you wait and see.”

They laugh, bright and happy sounds in the quiet night. Victoria is taller, smarter, prettier, a lot of many other things Max isn’t. She’s bright enough to be with the stars and brave enough that she’d steal one of them when the moon isn’t looking. She’d do it, too, if only that’s possible to do.

But right now she’s there, on the ledge, walking slow and uncertain and maybe a little scared. The wind continues and Max’s hoodie won’t stop fluttering, waving and lashing like a cape in flight. Victoria might be better than her, but Max is the superhero here. She’s the one with the cape, the one who’s holding Victoria’s hand and keeping her safe. The one who’s keeping her from falling.

Or, the one who’ll catch her when she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Say you'll never let me go_


	9. River of Tears / Scars to Your Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Alessia Cara - River of Tears](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4b2M5K7sbc0)   
>  [Alessia Cara - Scars to Your Beautiful](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Em7vc8NWUNY)

The lighthouse shines. Rotating lights in the night, sweeping over the sky, golden glows on velvet dark. The stars are feeble, tiny things barely there that watch the sweep and blink of the lighthouse’s lights. Wind is rustling the trees. Max breathes warmth into her hands.

The fire of their bonfire licks, reaches up. Flickers. Behind the flames, Victoria watches.

“What are you thinking?” She asks timidly. Treading with her toes, careful. She rocks forward, rests her chin on the valley of her knees. “You’re so quiet.”

Max hums. From nearby she grabs a stick and pokes at the wood of the bonfire. Something crackles at the bottom. The fire whips, the shadows roll onto Victoria’s eyebrows and nose. “Nothing,” Max says thoughtfully. “I’m just quietly enjoying this night with you.”

The fire hisses. Victoria looks at it, and burning colors crowd the browns of her eyes. They turn gold. “It’s a nice night, isn’t it?”

Max shrugs. Smiles, looking back to the lighthouse. A call to lost ships, to tired sailors. Come home and moor. Rest your head and bones. The sea is dreadful, harsh, and haunted. The sea is pain, longing, and sadness.

Pain, longing, and sadness.

Swaying. Drifting. Lost. Max looks at the sea and all she could think about is loneliness. Ships so far from land, people miles from home. Ships and no shores to anchor on. People and no loved ones for comfort.

The sea is a long tale of loves had and loves lost. Loves told and never told. Loves unrequited. The sea is Chloe telling Max she’ll never leave, telling Max she’s always here and they’ll always be together. For better or for worse, good or bad.

The sea is Chloe and Rachel driving off to California with their clothes and dreams.

Heartbreak. Tears filling the cracks, rivers flowing through the heartstrings. The sea is pain, longing, and sadness.

Max buried her heart here the day she got lost at sea. The dirt has hardened where it lies under.

“Are you cold?” Max asks Victoria, turning to look at the fire and the face beyond it. Victoria blinks and shrugs, plays off a quiet nonchalance while she shudders.

“Are you?” She questions back, because she doesn’t want to admit weakness. Max finds this funny. She laughs, and Victoria reddens.

The bonfire sputters, flames swaying. Victoria’s eyes are golden. Her face is lit, bright, beautiful, red with shy blood and a flustered pulse.

Max stands. “Move over.” She says, and Victoria scoots a few. Her skirt drags over the dirt, the pebbles might leave marks. Max walks around the bonfire, plops next to her and settles, knees up and shoulders in. She leans. Victoria is warm, burning with affection and love and hope. She looks at Max and her lips spread unbidden, cheeks lifted and exquisite in the firelight. Her smile is bright. The lights of a lighthouse. Calling ships home.

Max digs her heart back up.

“Tell me when you’re ready to go.” Victoria says. She smiles at Max in that glowing way she always does, and Max knows.

She’s home.

 

_And I believe that you are everything I needed  
But I don’t need no more _

* * *

 

Max calls it a wonderland. A paradise of secrets and stories, people’s pasts in clutters. She says, _you just have to know where and how to look._

Victoria calls it a health hazard. Rusted steel of tetanus and tall junk piles of concussions and physical injuries. She says, _this is a junkyard, Max_ , and Max doesn’t hear her.

Max speaks with her whole body. She folds with her shyness, slumps with her sadness. With her excitement she flails, steps with a skip, jogs ahead. She disappears into a tunnel hidden behind heaps of battered cars and Victoria follows. Down the tunnel, it’s grimy and dark. The outside is fashioned to look like the mouth of a clown.

The sunlight doesn’t wander much inside. Old streamers hang at the walls like tattered curtains. The air is dusty, rusty both to the nose and mouth. Short of the entrance there’s a board overhead, says _Welcome to the Cabin of Wonders_ and Victoria tries to think of the last time Arcadia Bay had a carnival.

“Max?” She calls out tentatively. Her own voice bounces, fades. “Max?”

Her footfalls echo. A _click-click_ of suedes and old floors. She creeps forward, turns a corner, peeks cautiously. Tries carrying on but a click and a snip of fabric ripping sends her whirling with a squeak.

She sees herself. Tall, blonde, pale. But the mirror is all wrong, wavy at the sides and lumpy. The reflection it gives her is ugly. Her belly is stretched, her thighs are distorted, and when she winces her face crumples menacingly.

She sees herself. This is herself. This is herself no matter what mirror. This is herself who her parents always frown at and classmates at middle school used to laugh at.

And someone does laugh. Victoria turns and there is Max. Grinning, doubled over, pointing. Laughing, the sound echoing in the empty funhouse into the hundred voices of middle schoolers, the hundred whispers of high schoolers at her back. Laugh, laugh, whisper, whisper.

“Look at me!” Max declares breathlessly. Victoria flinches, turns back to the mirror.

Max’s face is blown. Twisted at the jaw and eyes spread far from her nose. She sticks her tongue out, steps forward and grabs Victoria by the hand. She pulls them deeper down the path until the corridor spreads into a room lined with mirrors, tall and short, wide and narrow, shaped and not-shaped. Each reflection is worse than the last. For each reflection, Victoria sees herself.

Not pretty enough. Not thin enough. Not good enough.

Not enough.

Her lip wobbles. She tries hiding but Max pulls, points to a reflection of them both. Side by side, blown so out of proportion they’d fit in a cartoon. Max sticks her tongue out, and she looks so stupid that Victoria actually laughs.

Mirror after mirror, they laugh. Mirror after mirror, Max does something ridiculous. Mirror after mirror, Max takes the time to turn to Victoria and stare. To smile, to look at her like she has the entire galaxy in her eyes.

“I look weird.” Victoria says. Max pokes her at her side.

“You’re still pretty.”

And there it is again, the look that makes Victoria feel like she has celestial bodies trapped in her eyes. Max squeezes her hand and the stars explode, the planets collide, and there’s so much fire and electricity under her skin she just shivers.

When they laugh this time, she knows the echoes are a lie. She knows the laughs, the whispers are a lie.

Victoria knows she is enough.

 

_Let me be your mirror, help you see a little bit clearer  
The light that shines within _


	10. Can I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Alina Baraz - Can I](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1A_F4LJYCPo)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pointless, fluffy, drabble-ish.

Max holds her hand up, a loose star with languid fingers splicing the air. The lines of her fingers are things Victoria loves looking at, a tiny luxury for eyes that so love looking at all things beautiful. Victoria fights the urge for now. Keeps her eyes on the road, drives them down a dirt path and past trees that on any other time of the day, would flaunt leaves evergreen.

They're bluish now in the evening. Gaps between branches show fleeting peeps of stars looking down. Max asks, "Are we close?" and Victoria hums, passive: smiles, amused. She imagines Max tilting her head like a curious animal. She fights the urge to look.

Arcadia Bay is a few miles behind them, sleeping at midnight. Victoria slows the car and weaves into shrubs, the end of the path, dirt crunching under the tires. A clearing spreads out upfront.

Wind blows, gentle. Max's hair flows, flutters when she hikes herself higher to look above the windshield, breath held in admiration of the scenery. Just the sea, the deepest blue that blends almost seamlessly with the sky, stars reflected like a hundred blinking lights on moving waves. She breathes out, the wind breathes with her. Victoria feels her ribs stutter.

"It's beautiful." Max says.

"Very." Victoria answers. She's looking at something else entirely.

Max twists to fit herself through the gap separating their seats. She finds her footing on an unsteady lump on the carpet, her knee snug on the posh leather of the backseat. Victoria watches her spread herself out on the seat, open, unguarded.

She crawls through the gap too, keeps her knees on the carpet, watches Max shift and watch in return. She reaches out with one hand, Max reaches out with two. Their lips meet, feather brushes. A small lick and Max shudders, fingers skirting the lines of Victoria's jaw. They breathe. They pull apart.

Max has pink cheeks and warm breaths, eyes crinkling at the corners when Victoria tilts her head in thought.

Victoria shifts to reach above the dashboard, flicks a switch to unfurl the roof back over their heads. The roof hasn't even completely closed when she climbs on top of Max, straddles and kisses again.

She waits for it. The nudge to her shoulder, the squeeze to her bicep, the signal to stop. The sign to take it slow, take it easy, not yet. It doesn't come. Max's breaths brush the top of Victoria's lip in a steady pace, not hitching once. Not at the slightest.

Victoria pulls back, keeps the warmth under her skin at bay. She blinks and Max's eyes are brilliant, blue luminescence. Waiting. She swallows, moves her hands to grab something, anything, and they fall on the shoulders of Max's hoodie.

_Let's go further._

"Can I?..." She whispers, and Max smiles, says yes with a laugh that lasts two seconds of breath.

Victoria picks up very little of the world outside Max's body. The radio, humming with a slow song, deep bass. The leather against their skin. Clothing rustling. Clothing peeling, falling to the carpet.

Then. Hands shaking. The lines of Max's fingers, beautiful, works of art that create more works of art: photos, the images she draws on Victoria's thighs and back. The butterflies in Victoria's insides, the butterflies of Max's kisses. Sights and sounds surging into one flurry of starry explosions behind Victoria's eyelids, thighs shaking.

Lights. From the dashboard, from outside, behind Max's pupils like muffled searchlights. Making up constellations with Max's freckles, star bursts and comets with each heartbeat, collisions. The waistband of Max's underwear, snapped (a laugh) and slid. The shadow on the dip of Max's throat.

Max reaches for her, coming undone, tender on Victoria's fingers. The tremors last for more breaths than Victoria bothers to count. She blinks, watches. The only cameras for this moment.

Victoria settles, her cheek to Max's shoulder, Max's hip to her belly. Max shifts, says, "That was..." and Victoria laughs because she butchers the end of the sentence with stutters.

"Good?" Victoria provides, hopeful. Max's chest vibrates with a small laugh.

"Very."

Their hands clasp, voids filled with the warmth and shapes of each other's fingers. Max brings their hands up to her face and turns them until she can kiss Victoria's knuckle.

"It really is beautiful here," She says, head angled to look out the windshield. "Thanks for bringing me. For this." She continues to stare out at the view, smile small, sleepy. Victoria is only looking at her.

There are better places to look at stars. Cherry Springs. The Headlands. The Great Basin. Denali. Places beyond Oregon. 

_Let's go further._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I bet you never knew_   
>  _There’s a universe inside of you_
> 
> _Can I_   
>  _Undress you_


	11. Breakers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Local Natives - Breakers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L1dFjloBZYo)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me nearly a week to realize i haven't uploaded this to this collection yet, so if you've already read this on Tumblr, well nothing new happens and i'm sorry  
> I am ashamed :')
> 
> Anyway, i was prompted for alt Chasefield, and Chloe and Rachel are alive because they deserve to be

The lights are catching on Maxine’s hair. On the thin slivers of red and blue tangled in richer brown, on where Taylor messed up the dyeing process at the tips and they turned this funny shade of purple. It doesn’t really help that beyond the lazy halos of the nightclub’s flickering colors, there isn’t much other light and Maxine just _glows_.

Victoria really doesn’t know enough science to be able to dispute the nagging thought that maybe, _maybe_ , Maxine is actually ethereal.

(She’s divine, she’s something else, something Victoria isn’t sure she can keep.)

Maxine’s eyes are closed, arms raised, a splash of freckles visible under the rise of her shirt. It’s nothing new (nothing Victoria hasn’t seen before, or touched, or kissed) but Victoria’s pulse races like she’s seeing forbidden views all the same. She counts her breaths and she manages to get to 14 before Maxine’s eyes open. A slow unfolding of blue.

Maxine sees her watching and smiles, cocks her head in invitation: bathes Victoria’s chin in the scent of alcohol and weed of her breaths when Victoria comes closer. “You’re spacing out,” She says, and Victoria thinks that’s accurate, yeah, pretty much, because Maxine is kind of like space and just out of this world (and it’s so _corny_ how Victoria’s brain goes there.) “You’re drunk!”

“I’m not!” Victoria says, downs the rest of her drink with one swig to prove her point. The plastic cup feels heavy in her hand. She’s disoriented after that. Maxine is laughing, and behind Victoria someone pushes past so she topples one-two steps. Maxine catches her with a hand to her arm. Victoria insists, with fire, “Jesus—I’ve got a higher tolerance than you!”

They’re shouting because the music’s loud, beats bashing Victoria’s chest and she feels like throwing up, and Maxine is laughing because she knows the truth. Nathan’s pens and ideas and cartoon beards, his pictures that Victoria had to take back with panicked threats and wild eyes.

“Sure you do,” Maxine says anyway, eyes rolling, the corners crinkling when she smiles. A flash of her teeth like she’s issuing a challenge. She palms Victoria’s shoulders, leans until Victoria feels her upper lip on her chin and asks, “Can you still dance?”

(Always issuing a challenge.)

Victoria tries to look offended.  She sways, and Maxine sways with her. Maxine doesn’t really know how to dance, she said so herself, but the lights are tangling with her hair again, and she’s moving her hips side to side, waist twisting and dipping and her skin is bright, flushed, cream with a strong brush of red. She doesn’t know how to dance but she looks so _good_ , _feels_ so good that Victoria makes a mental note to unravel the science of this whole thing later.

She’s electric, she’s all rhythm and energy sparked by beer and weed and maybe a couple of pills, and she’s this incredible force that’s making Victoria’s head spin.

She throws her head back, hand finding Victoria’s throat, fingers creeping to the back of Victoria’s neck. Victoria shudders, closes her eyes, and moves.

They dance. They’re just two other bodies in a sea of other raging bodies, but Maxine is so close. Victoria’s hands are on her hips, her body so flush Victoria can feel the fire coming off of her against her own sternum. Maxine’s hand creeps higher, fingertips brushing blonde tips, the curve of her chin a masterpiece when she throws her head back. “ _Shit_ ,” Victoria rasps and it’s finally out there, the awe from this whole thing that is Maxine. She hears Maxine laugh, smile and eyes and light directed to Victoria.

(Victoria has to catch her breath here, because this is about the part things get scary.)

Maxine blinks, tilts her head until her upper lip skirts the curve connecting Victoria’s jaw to her chin. Whispers, “Do you wanna get out of here?” 

Victoria’s heart shatters her vocal chords on its way up her throat so she just nods. Maxine splays a hand on her arm, furls her fingers and pulls them both past sweaty bodies, past all this teenage rage until they’re free.

Until they’re breathing better air, until the music is muffled and Victoria can hear the sounds of their own wet kissing in the darkness. Until Victoria can feel her cardigan being unbuttoned and she’s melting so wholly against Maxine like candle wax, until she can feel so much of Maxine, feels so much _for_ Maxine, that it _scares_ her.

She’s breathing in tiny pants. Maxine is laughing against the underside of her jaw, the fire under the skin of Maxine’s hips strong enough she’s convinced her palms will burn.

Something crashes outside. Victoria pulls back and Maxine tenses, springs up, her nose on Victoria’s clavicles. There’s shouting, the scramble of feet dashing and voices howling _cops, cops,_ and Victoria sputters, “Crap, _crap._ Where’s Nathan?”

“I don’t know! I think he went for party favors—”

“There’s party favors all over the nightclub—”

“Oh shit—”

She pulls Maxine up, keeps the contact as they burst out of the nightclub stockroom. People are hoarding toward one direction and Victoria means to follow, but Maxine pulls with purpose and leads them the opposite direction.

Victoria is _terrified_ , heartbeat ringing in her ears, one too many beers throwing her back and forth and she kind of wants to puke now but Maxine is just laughing, running, taking Victoria away with her. 

“Wh—where are we going?” She manages.

“Are you scared?”

Victoria doesn’t answer. Maxine slows, throws Victoria a look over her shoulder. She’s smiling, cocky, confident, issuing a challenge. She sees the pale of Victoria’s face and the wide of Victoria’s eyes.

“I want you braver.” She says, and her smile widens.

Issuing a challenge: _I dare you._

Like the first time they kissed, touched, the first time Victoria got to see the freckles under her shirt.The first time Maxine took her and Victoria let herself get taken away.

(I dare you.)

She’s been clutching Victoria’s arm but now she lets go, takes two steps slow, then sprints the rest of the way down the hall she’s led them to.

Victoria flinches, works through the pounding of her head to run after Maxine with unsteady legs. She hears her harsh breaths, feels her heart beating up to the confines of her throat. 

Maxine has disappeared. The hallway fades into a sharp turn and she doesn’t slow, doesn’t look back once, not even when there are suddenly footsteps behind her that follow.

When she turns, there’s a battered up door and she pushes through with the whole weight of her body and an arm braced for the fall.

She stumbles, scrapes her knees on the pavement. The ground is spinning. She smells beer, weed: Maxine’s breath by her cheek. Maxine helps her up and pulls, drags them both to a red pick-up truck taking up two damn parking spaces.

“Let’s go, _let’s go!_ ” Chloe yells, head sticking out of the driver’s window, blue hair mussed and lips swollen, marks on her neck. Maxine clambers up the back. Victoria has only gotten one leg on when Rachel, half of her body stuck out of the passenger window, slaps the truck on the hood and hollers the signal to go.

The car jolts forward. Victoria shrieks, balance throwing her back but Maxine grabs the flap of her open cardigan and yanks her in.

They peel out of the parking lot and barely miss a haphazardly parked patrol car. Victoria settles, finds her breath, turns to Maxine who’s watching her.

“How’d you know there was a back exit?” She asks breathlessly. Maxine bites her lip, turns her face to the sky and leans back.

“I didn’t.”

“What?”

“I took a chance,” Maxine says, and there’s a laugh with it. Victoria gawks until Maxine opens her eyes again, looks at her again, grins at her again. “I’ve never been to that club before.”

The truck is running at full speed. Portland is a flurry of swirling colors, sights and sounds dimmed to shapeless blobs and the whir of the truck’s engine. Victoria feels her heart, beating hard and angry and terrified.

(But the danger has passed and they’ve gotten far away enough to be safe, and she knows she’s terrified of something else again.)

“You were scared.”

“I wasn’t,” Victoria says with a weak scoff, still catching her breath. “You could’ve just told me where we were goi—where you _thought_ we were going.”

“ _You were scared._ ”

Maxine leans back, stretches her legs so her left foot nudges Victoria’s right. She’s smiling again.

(Challenging. Daring. _I dare you_.)

Victoria swallows, because she was scared. _Is_ scared. Of the danger. Of taking chances, of _this_ , of feeling too much of _this._ Of Maxine, of the force bundled up in one small body, of the power like magnets pulling Victoria and taking her away.

And it _is_ scary, because Victoria feels all of this and Maxine is just there, just smiling, just laughing, and Victoria doesn’t know if she feels _this_ , too.

( _She’s divine, she’s something else, something Victoria isn’t sure she can keep_.)

“I was,” She starts slowly. “But you got us through. So.”

She stops there, because Maxine suddenly laughs and says, “I was, too.”

Victoria laughs under her breath because okay, so Maxine can feel the same.

The truck pushes on. Wind laps at their faces, cold enough that their teeth chatter. The sky is dark, the streets are dim, stars and lamp posts barely there, but Maxine is vibrant and that’s enough.

Maxine has always been the one to initiate these things, daring and challenging and pushing Victoria to the edge. But this time when they kiss and laugh into each other’s cheeks, it’s Victoria who’s leaned forward, heart in her throat.

Maxine gives her a look. No challenge, no dare. A question, almost. The slightest raise of her brows, the smallest gap between her lips. She breathes, and Victoria can almost swear her lips quiver.

And this is scary, and unclear, and Victoria doesn’t know if this is all fun and games anymore.

But Victoria takes a chance and closes the distance.

(Braver.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I can’t let it happen, just let it happen_   
>  _Just don’t think so much, don’t think so much_


End file.
